


various Damon/Alaric comment fics

by janie_tangerine



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: 5 Acts Meme, Angsty Schmoop, Bloodplay, Crossdressing, Jealousy, Knifeplay, M/M, Morning After, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars, general S1 and S2 spoilers but nothing past that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of comment fics I ended up writing for mostly the five acts meme and that are pretty much short stuff without much of a plot - I figured I could just put them all together. Nothing belongs to me, specific notes for each ficlet are in the different chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. scar tissue (pg13)

**Author's Note:**

> Damon has a thing for scars. Alaric fails to find it as disturbing as it could be. 
> 
> Originally written for [ozmissage](http://ozmissage.livejournal.com/) for a five acts exchange round.

Alaric has a scar on the inside of his arm.  
  
It’s a very long story, whose salient points are that he was eight, he was in school, something made of glass broke and he was careless. He can’t really remember most of how it actually went, but if he turns his wrist up, you can see a scarred, almost white gash that runs from the elbow almost to his wrist. It had been bad back then.  
  
He never really thinks about that, really, but lately it’s brought up in a lot of conversations because apparently Damon is fond of it.  
  
Trust Alaric to end up in a no-strings-attached thing with a psychotic vampire when his job is killing them, but then again, it’s another story, thought it’s not long. Damon had pushed him against the wall in the back alley behind the grill and kissed him stupid, then when Alaric had shouted at him Damon had calmly explained that:  
  
1\. Neither of them was in a relationship.  
2\. They spent half of the time calling each other (you call me, Alaric had stated. Semantics, Damon had answered.)  
3\. Alaric was the one person that was okay with sharing a drink or two with Damon, and the punching didn’t count.  
2\. Damon had to grow some respect for the only person he never managed to kill.  
  
This stated, he had said, no point in not fucking. It was just going to make them feel better, right?  
  
Alaric still isn’t sure about that, but whatever.  
  
Point is, Damon is quite fond of that scar, or so it seems. Whenever Alaric has his guard half-down Damon always grabs his arm and spends an unhealthy amount of time tracing it with his fingers, and if they’re actually having sex he might lick along its length. Alaric has been afraid that he’d bite, a couple of times, but he never did and so well, everyone has their weird kinks, right?  
  
Except that after this crazy thing lasts for a month he’d really like to know what’s going on here.  
  
“What’s so fascinating about that?” he asks one day as Damon traces the scar with a nail. Alaric can’t help shivering.  
  
“Nothing,” Damon answers, but he doesn’t even try to hide that he’s lying.  
  
“Yeah, like you don’t think it’s my most fascinating trait.”  
  
“It’s long,” Damon says then. “And deep.”  
  
“So? I still don’t see the point.”  
  
“We don’t have them,” Damon shrugs after giving Alaric his arm back.  
  
“You what?”  
  
“We don’t scar. It doesn’t work like with you. If you hurt me, it’ll just regenerate.”  
  
Damon says it like it’s no big deal, but it’s obvious that it is some kind of big deal. Alaric would just like to get how it –  
  
Right, he realizes then, of course. It’s because they leave traces. He’ll always remember that he did a stupid thing when he was eight because of that scar, like he’ll always remember the first time he killed a vampire because said vampire had tried to stake him in the hip and there’s another scar there, as well. Or one he has on his back when he was thrown against a tree and he had just a t-shirt that got ripped apart, or all the other small ones that he’s remembering right now. They’re memories burned on his body, they’re there to testify that he has lived to get them.  
  
While yeah, right, now looking at Damon (who’s naked but then again they just fucked, it couldn’t be different), Alaric realizes that his skin is flawless. Pale, smooth, not a scratch, not a bruise. A clean slate, which will never get dirty, and damn but he hadn’t thought that Damon would care about that.  
  
“You  _do_  miss living. Sometimes at least, I guess.”  
  
Damon snorts, but he doesn’t question what he just said.  
  
“I got one when I went to war.”  
  
“What –”  
  
“Someone shot me in the hip. Here,” Damon says, his hand covering a patch of skin that is definitely not scarred. “It was pretty ugly. It wasn’t even completely scarred when I got turned. Sometimes it hurt. I hated it back then.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
“It went away when I turned. Now I wish I still had it.”  
  
Alaric moves closer and Damon shakes his head. “If you feel like you should make me feel better, fuck off.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning on that,” Alaric says before moving in front of Damon and lowering his head until his lips are pressed against Damon’s skin. And at least while the guy is dead he most definitely isn’t cold, which is better because otherwise Alaric would have a lot of problems doing this.  
  
He bites softly in the hollow between neck and shoulder, sucking a bit on the flesh between his teeth before running his tongue over the reddened skin and then biting it again. He isn’t aiming to draw blood, hell no, but he wants that bit of skin to be wrinkled and full pink against its surroundings, and he repeats the process for a while until he’s sure that he did his job to the letter. He can’t resist pressing mouth to the skin he was biting until a second ago before moving his head away though; he just uses his lips, no tongue or teeth, the kiss way too chaste in comparison to what they were doing half an hour ago, and then he leans back.  
  
And he has to congratulate himself – that’s a hickey that is going to be hard to cover, but since it’s not exactly a wound he doubts that it’ll disappear more quickly than it would with another normal person.  
  
“That shouldn’t go away for a couple of days. Maybe you’ll want to wear a scarf,” Alaric says before leaning back against his pillow, and Damon stares at him, his eyes carefully blank but wide enough to betray a hell of a reaction. Then Damon’s hand reaches up, tracing the hickey for a handful of seconds, and Alaric figures that it’d be pretty low if he tried to come out with something to lighten up the situation.  
  
He’ll let Damon work through this crap. If he accepts that he obviously still has feelings, maybe Alaric will feel allowed to admit to himself that he likes Damon a lot more than he should.  
  
End.


	2. a question of types (pg13)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein Damon crashes Alaric's first date in ages and not just for the kick of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for [gottalovev](http://gottalovev.livejournal.com/) for a five acts exchange round; the prompt was jealousy.

“Will you explain me what the hell is up with you?” Alaric hisses as he forces himself not to run out of the Grill. Damon just keeps Alaric’s pace and gives him a smirk, and it makes Alaric want to punch him even more.  
  
“Nothing is up with me,” Damon replies with a certain nonchalance, and Alaric doesn’t even need to think about it twice.  
  
“Yeah. And with everything you could do on Friday night, you need to ruin the first date I managed to score in months?”  
  
Worst thing is, his date was the new maths teacher. He has to see her every day at least twice. He’s up for a very embarrassing last semester this year, that’s for sure. Or well, after Damon dropped at their table claiming that he just wanted to say hi and then proceeded to dump on her a bunch of information about what Alaric likes to do in his spare time that are absolutely  _not_ true, there’s a very low chance that it won’t be embarrassing.  
  
“Why, does that surprise you?” Damon replies, and the worst thing is that Alaric knows the answer already.  
  
“Damon, you can be pretty damn petty, but you never crashed a date since I’ve set foot here. Any date. Not even one where your brother was involved. I had assumed crashing dates was too low for your standards, and I’m still assuming that it is.”  
  
For a second Damon looks impressed. It’s gone in the blink of an eye, but (and it’s quite sad that Alaric has even noticed) it’s enough; Alaric  _is_  right.  
  
“I was more bored than usual,” Damon replies.  
  
“You go rob blood banks when you’re more bored than usual.”  
  
Damon doesn’t say whatever he was about to say.  
  
Alaric can’t help making deductions here, but the more he goes on, the more he wishes he was drunker than he is. (Which is practically nothing: you don’t drink yourself to death if you want to make a good impression on your date. Not that it’s a problem now.)  
  
“Wait. Christ, it can’t be possible that you wrecked this particular date just because  _I_  was involved.”  
  
Which is the most rational conclusion.  
  
“Come on, Ric, she’s not even your type!”  
  
Alaric wishes he was a  _lot_  drunker, indeed.  
  
“What the – what do you  _know_  about my type, anyway?”  
  
“If Isobel was anywhere near it, then  _she_  wasn’t for sure.”  
  
Which is also a pretty valid point. Which doesn’t mean that the core of the matter changes.  
  
“Well then, you have no freaking right to interfere anyway! Now you’re telling me you did it for my own good?”  
  
Damon shrugs and ohno. No. He has his hands on his elbows, he’s keeping a safe distance, his head is slightly tilting and his face is carefully blank, which means that Damon is going on the defensive; if that psychology class about body language Alaric took in college taught him something, that’s the pose of someone who knows that has done a wrong thing but isn’t about to take it back anytime soon.  
  
“I highly doubt that you give a damn about her, do you?”  
  
“Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t even consider her for breakfast,” Damon hisses, and Alaric tries not to think about what _breakfast_  means in this context.  
  
Then his brain finally adds two and two.  
  
“Are you seriously jealous?”  
  
“Of course not!” Damon snaps back, but his position doesn’t change and he looks on his left rather than at Alaric.  
  
 _Lying_. Obviously lying.  
  
Which means –  
  
Alaric needs something along the line of three bottles of vodka for starters.  
  
“I can’t believe this.”  
  
“Can’t believe what?”  
  
“That you fucked with my date because – I don’t even know what but obviously it has to do with me and I’m not exactly sure that I should even ask –”  
  
He can’t even finish that sentence before he finds himself slammed against a wall, with Damon’s lips on his, Damon’s hands grabbing his hips so hard that Alaric couldn’t break out even if he wanted and a body that is way too warm to be dead almost melting against his.  
  
Point is, instead of doing something sane, Alaric kisses Damon back.  
  
Stupid body acting without his brain’s consent, except that maybe he has had his fantasies about this, but like hell he’d have acted on them.  
  
And when the kiss is over, Damon doesn’t really move away. Neither he looks at Alaric in the eye and Alaric thinks that he will never understand how Damon’s head really works. He wouldn’t even in centuries.  
  
“You know, you can look at me,” he says before this becomes ridiculous.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Does it seem to you that I’m the one freaking out here?”  
  
“I’m not –”  
  
“Shut the fuck up. You are. Listen, it might even be a good thing if you decide that you want to have feelings for a change, but you could own up to them, just so you –”  
  
“I think,” Damon interrupts then, “that I have an idea of who’s your type. More than the lovely new maths teacher.”  
  
“Really. Who would that be then?”  
  
“Me,” Damon whispers in his ear in a way that would almost be charming, before kissing Alaric again, except that this time there’s tongue slipping into Alaric’s parted lips and fuck but Damon knows how to kiss.  
  
Alaric just kisses back and decides that maybe the evening wasn’t so wasted after all.  
  
End.


	3. coming around (r)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem is that Alaric might have been drunk last evening, but not so drunk that he doesn’t remember what happened before he woke up naked in a bed with Damon Salvatore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally written for a five acts meme round for [sandrine](http://sandrine.livejournal.com/), the prompts being morning after, rough sex (more or less, in this case) and forgiveness. Title from Steve Earle.

Let’s get this out of the way first: Alaric  _doesn’t_  like Damon Salvatore.  
  
Is that clear? Good, because he’s not going to say it again.  
  
Okay, he will allow you to say that he doesn’t exactly  _dislike_  Damon, but it isn’t the same thing as  _liking_  him. If Damon suddenly has decided that Alaric is the perfect drinking buddy even if every time he shows up while Alaric is having his goddamn glass of whisky he’s never welcome, and if he doesn’t mind being punched two times on three when that happens, well, his business.  
  
By the way, Alaric is going to cut the alcohol, a lot. Because considering what happened just now, it’s much better if he signs up for AA meetings the fuck now. If there’s even an AA centre in Mystic Falls.  
  
Because he can’t just have woken up in the Salvatore house, in the bed Damon isn’t supposed to use because vampires don’t sleep, with the both of them fucking  _naked_  . And Damon smirking at him like he just proved a point he had been trying to prove for ages.  
  
Also, the problem is that Alaric might have been drunk last evening, but not so drunk that he doesn’t remember what happened before he woke up naked in a bed with Damon Salvatore.  
  
He remembers being at the Grill, and then Damon showing up as usual, and it was one of those times where he didn’t feel like punching the bastard (not when his wife just showed up and Elena’s uncle might be planning something Alaric doesn’t really like). So he hadn’t and instead of trying to snark back as soon as Damon started trying to get him riled up, he had bought him a glass of bourbon.  
  
That had shut Damon up for a good five minutes, and it was more than Alaric had been hoping for.  
  
From then things are kind of fuzzy, and Alaric doesn’t exactly recall how they went from there to rutting against each other in the alley behind the bar, but from that point he remembers everything. He remembers how strangely soft Damon’s mouth felt against his while they kissed, urgent and heated and fast. He remembers that he hadn’t felt Damon’s teeth near his skin once and then well, they probably walked back here. He didn’t drive and he doubts Damon brought his flashy car along.  
  
The walk didn’t sober him up at all, otherwise he wouldn’t have fallen on the bed with Damon pushing him down and he wouldn’t have let him clutch so hard at his hips that now Alaric can see shadows of fingertips burned into his flesh. He thinks that as some point he had flipped them over and then it had happened at least another three times because Damon wasn’t really the one to let himself being pinned down without a struggle. And they had kissed again and again, still hard and messy and urgent and almost painful, but it had felt real as not many things had since his wife decided to become a vampire and left him there believing she was dead.  
  
He remembers that it had felt hot like fire the second he gave a deep thrust and Damon had surged up against him, even if the bastard had kept on saying that  _he could be harder, was Alaric too much of a gentleman to just properly fuck him_?  
  
At one point Alaric had snapped and he had done that  _properly_ , slamming himself inside a body that should have been cold but right then had been burning up, with blue eyes smirking up at him until Damon’s pupils became blown and he stopped being a smartass for once. Alaric remembers the way Damon arched up, baring his neck, and he had thought  _this is some irony_  before thrusting up and down again. Then Damon’s hands had reached up and well, Alaric thinks he must have fingerprints there, too.  
  
He remembers passing out just a short while after coming and collapsing over Damon, and at least the guy is a vampire and doesn’t need to breathe.  
  
“Had a good night?” Damon asks, winking in that insufferable way of his, and Alaric thinks he might want to strangle him after all.  
  
“Shut up. I have a headache,” he answers, and it’s true. His head is pounding and the sun filtering from the window is hurting his eyes. Damon doesn’t even blink. And he’s a vampire. This is fucking ridiculous.  
  
“What a pity. I guess being a vampire has its perks, doesn’t it?” And he’s gloating as he says it. Alaric can hear it in his voice.  
  
“Remind me why did I ever decide to stop trying to kill you,” Alaric retorts, because right now he’d really like to know that, and then he finds himself pinned against the bed, Damon’s body hovering over his, and damn, well, the smug bastard might deserve to die but he really looks too good not to want to kiss him right this moment.  
  
“Oh, come on. You  _know_  you prefer me undead and kicking around rather than with a stake in my heart.”  
  
“My ass,” Alaric answers, but his tone lacks the necessary venom. “I still don’t like you,” he adds, even if it sounds absolutely not convincing.  
  
“Seems like I will just have to wait a bit for that. But I can be very…” Damon says, his hand going slowly downwards towards Alaric’s crotch, and damn,  _damn_ , he hadn’t realized that he had gotten harder since waking up. “… likeable.”  
  
“ _You_?” Alaric breathes in disbelief while Damon’s hand closes slowly around his cock.  
  
“Me. Oh, you need to learn to like me, but if we both make an effort, I think we would get along splendidly. Wouldn’t we just?” Damon purrs next to his ear.  
  
Alaric would really, really like to answer, but right now he isn’t being exactly coherent and the bastard does know how to jerk you off, and so he figures he’ll bury the hatchet for now.  
  
He still doesn’t  _like_  Damon, by the way, but yeah, he can safely admit that he doesn’t dislike him anymore. From the way things look, he has already lost this one, but it doesn’t feel that bad after all.  
  
End.


	4. pink lace and strange (nc17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The last thing Damon was expecting was to push down the fly on Alaric’s jeans and find panties._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a five acts exchange round for [miya-tenaka](http://miya-tenaka.livejournal.com/); the prompt was crossdressing. Mildly inspired by that pics of himself in pink panties that Matt Davis used to tweet. Title from Nirvana (sort of).

Now, surprising Damon Salvatore is something that is very, very hard to accomplish.  
  
And considering that right this moment Damon is barely managing to control his expression so that it doesn’t show that he’s impossibly close to shocked rather than surprised…  
  
Well, he’ll have to let Alaric win this one. Damon always knew that the guy had potential, as long as he pulled the stick out of his ass and stopped hating on Damon for that whole pesky thing with Isobel (and damn, it was one of the few things Damon had done when he had been in perfectly good faith; teaches him doing things in good faith is rarely worth the hassle). And right, fine, Damon kind of likes him, if only because he’s one of the three people on the face of this planet who isn’t scared of punching him in the face and Damon can only appreciate that. Also, the occasional no-string-attached sex they’ve been having has been quite nice, all things considered. One thing Damon doesn’t need is attaching strings anywhere, and he’s done with girls below the age of twenty for the moment, thank you so fucking much.  
  
Anyway, point is, the last thing Damon was expecting was to push down the fly on Alaric’s jeans and find panties.  
  
Women’s panties. A bright pink. Very soft at the touch. And beneath them, Alaric is definitely interested. Right, he was interested _before_  while they were grinding against each other, but since Damon found out, he definitely became more interested.  
  
Damon’s lips part and he doesn’t say anything for three seconds before shutting his mouth again.  
  
When he looks up, Alaric is smirking in a way that looks way too smug, and Stefan would say that Damon rubbed off on him, probably.  
  
Okay, Damon is so  _not_  thinking about Stefan right this moment.  
  
“I can’t believe it,” Alaric says, still sounding so satisfied that Damon kind of wants to punch him.  
  
“You can’t believe what?”  
  
“I shut you up. Took a damn long time to manage that,” he says, and then Damon figures that yes, this time he can’t score this one for himself.  
  
Doesn’t mean he can’t take advantage of the situation.  
  
“Alright, alright, this is all yours. I’ll admit defeat, for the moment. And I have to say, now this was a fucking brilliant idea,” he says, trying to conjure up the most seductive tone he can, and then pushes Alaric’s jeans down to have a better look.  
  
Right. Pink panties. Synthetic cloth, but of the very comfortable kind. Absolutely soft when you touch them, and he has to admit that they really do Alaric’s ass a nice service.  
  
“A really fucking brilliant idea,” he reiterates, his hand palming Alaric’s hardening cock, and from the way Alaric tries not to moan and hopelessly fails, Damon thinks that he might score one for himself after all.  
  
“May I?” he asks, his voice mocking, and Alaric rolls his eyes.  
  
“Since when did you fucking start having manners?”  
  
“Touché,” Damon answers, and then winks at Alaric and drops to his knees, pushes the panties down enough to free Alaric’s dick (which is  _painfully_  hard by now) and takes it straight down his throat.  
  
Awesome thing about being already dead: you can  _totally_  deep-throat someone for as long as you want. Alaric still tries not to moan too loud as Damon sucks him off, slow at first and faster later, his tongue swirling along the head once before two hands grip his hair and bring his face forward.  
  
All the time, Damon keeps his hands on Alaric’s hips, gripping the panties on the side; when Alaric comes inside his mouth not really a long while later (and he isn’t trying not to show how much he liked it anymore), Damon calmly swallows everything and thinks that he’s pretty sure he can score one for himself.  
  
He brings the panties up again and then palms Alaric’s cock again.  
  
It twitches.  
  
Even if Alaric just came, and that was hard. Damon feels very, very satisfied with himself.  
  
“I think you should keep these,” he says, his teeth slightly grasping Alaric’s earlobe before he’s punched in his side.  
  
“What the…”  
  
“No teeth, damn you. And I wasn’t planning on asking you for permission to keep them,” Alaric replies before moving way too fast for someone just coming down from an orgasm. Then he slams Damon against the wall and kisses him hard and fast and messy, and Damon decides to let him. Not to mention that he kind of likes it when Alaric gets hot and bothered and kisses him like he’d like to kill him but he’s settling for the next best option.  
  
Also, next time he’s at Elena’s he’s so taking a look in the underwear drawer and stealing a nice pair of panties for himself. First, it’d get her pissed and it’d get Stefan even more pissed, and he hasn’t tried to make his brother’s life miserable for a long time now, so he’s perfectly entitled to.  
  
Second, he just wants to see Alaric’s face when he shows up wearing them, too.  
  
Never say that Damon lets anyone managing to shock him get away with it without at least trying.

 

End.


	5. we've always been out of our minds (r)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The blade is sharp and thin and deadly, and Damon’s face halfway between inexpressive and satisfied as he moves it downwards, ripping Alaric’s shirt with a soft sound that sounds haunting when they’re surrounded by silence, except for their own breathing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for a five acts exchange round for [gottalovev](http://gottalovev.livejournal.com/); the prompt was knifeplay. Title from Tom Waits.

The more this goes on, the more Alaric thinks that he has to be out of his mind.  
  
Because well, being in a bed with someone who has turned his wife into a vampire (albeit on her request, so he can’t exactly blame him, as much as he’d like to) and  _killed_  him once is insane enough, and Alaric probably wasn’t in his right frame of mind when he didn’t try to get away from the situation, but letting him do this, well, that’s totally insane.  
  
It doesn’t mean that he’s trying to put a stop to it. Maybe it’s because Damon can’t really kill him if he wanted, that’s established; but still, as Damon moves that silver knife ( _Alaric’s_  silver knife, fuck) right along his throat (and he could slit right there in less than a second if the just flicked his wrist a bit), the blade becoming warm from the contact with his skin, he can’t help biting his tongue in order not to moan.  
  
(He’s not giving Damon satisfaction so easily.)  
  
The blade is sharp and thin and deadly, and Damon’s face halfway between inexpressive and satisfied as he moves it downwards, ripping Alaric’s shirt with a soft sound that sounds haunting when they’re surrounded by silence, except for their own breathing.  
  
There’s something skillful in the way Damon handles that knife.  
  
As the shirt falls off, a cool hand runs down his bare stomach and Alaric wishes this wasn’t making him so helpless. But if he moved he’d probably manage to gain a cut on his own and so he stays still.  
  
“You know what would be  _fun_?” Damon teases, the tip of the knife circling Alaric’s navel. “If you just let me have a taste. And don’t make that face, you know better to think that I’d try to turn you. It’d be…” he trails as the knife cuts Alaric’s briefs at the hip, “… against my better interests, anyway.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Alaric answers, but for some reason he turns his head baring his throat.  
  
No, not for some reason. It’s for the  _thrill_. It’s for the way he felt his cock harden at the suggestion. Fuck Damon and the fact that sometimes Alaric wonders how she had felt when he turned her.  
  
Not that he wants to turn.  
  
But.  
  
He still has thought about it more times than he’d have liked.  
  
And he can’t even hide how hard he is.  
  
The knife’s tip cuts just a bit and not even on his throat but rather in the hollow between his neck and his shoulder; Alaric can feel a small quantity of blood seep out and Damon’s eyes go dark as he leans down.  
  
It’s the most dangerous position he’s ever been in, and suddenly he knows what to do. He lets Damon lick at his skin for a second, enough to make him slightly lose control, and then Alaric’s hand reaches Damon’s wrist and he takes the knife away in a smooth motion before turning on his left.  
  
Now their positions are reversed and fuck, the way Damon’s eyebrow raises in sincere surprise is enough to give him another thrill that goes straight to his cock.  
  
“What about this?” Alaric asks, letting the side of the blade run along Damon’s unnaturally pale cheek, and he’s glad he’s managing to keep his voice in check.  
  
Damon raises the other eyebrow, standing perfectly still, and his whole body language screams challenge.  
  
“I’m impressed. And oh,  _please_ , have your fucking way,” he purrs as his hips slightly, slightly grind against Alaric’s crotch.  
  
Alaric can’t really say no to such an offer and he licks his lips as he brings his knife down and starts tracing random lines with the tip. He won’t cut, he doesn’t want to go there, he will never go there, but he has rarely felt so satisfied as he does in the moment he brings the knife near Damon’s throat and he shivers without being able to control it.


	6. i know you want what's on my mind (NC17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As Alaric's left hand moves and his index slowly, slowly reaches the pool of dark blood on Damon's chest, he wonders for a second if he’s really doing this. If he’s right exactly where she was. (And he is. Oh, he is.) What would happen if instead of tracing a random, diagonal line which sort of shakes along the way, he brought that finger up and licked it clean._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for a five acts exchange round; the prompt was _bloodplay_. Title from Stone Temple Pilots.

If this doesn’t take the prize for most dangerous and fucked up thing he has ever done, he doesn’t know what does.  
  
The fact that the other half of the equation is Damon Salvatore is just part of it, not the whole deal. He wishes it was.  
  
Because really. There’s nothing right in being in Damon's company if the point isn’t either killing him or having some kind of enemies-with-benefits alliance. Except that now he’s most definitely in Damon’s company and instead of the previously stated options, he’s fucking him right into the soft mattress of that ridiculous bed of Damon’s in which Alaric is sure the other doesn’t sleep.  
  
Since when vampires sleep, anyway?  
  
Point is, it was all  _his_  idea, and how Alaric went with it, is something you need to ask him on a day when he hasn’t had anything to drink and he can actually recall the whole sequence of happenings. Right now he can’t. Not when there’s blood seeping out a moderately deep cut that Damon carved into his own flesh and Christ, Alaric can’t believe that the wound is  _right_  where his hand is holding him down as he thrusts into him.  
  
And he’s totally into this, the smug bastard, because he isn’t trying to do anything except buckle his hips and meet Alaric’s thrusts in a way that has something greedy in it.  
  
As Alaric's left hand moves and his index slowly, slowly reaches the pool of dark blood on Damon's chest, he wonders for a second if he’s really doing this. If he’s right exactly where  _she_  was. (And he is. Oh, he is.) What would happen if instead of tracing a random, diagonal line which sort of shakes along the way, he brought that finger up and licked it clean.  
  
 _No_ , he thinks, snapping out of it, and brings a hand behind Damon’s neck to bring him forward, and he does come up, and kisses him forcefully, crushing their lips together so hard that it hurts; and he knows that Damon could just go and take a bite, but he also knows that it wouldn’t be convenient to either of them, and so Alaric just lets him take as he pounds harder and swallows Damon’s moans.  
  
Well, making  _him_  moan like that, unless he’s faking, is something Alaric figures he could be proud of.  
  
If there’s blood smeared over both of their chests, if sometimes he has to move backward and move a hand across it, taking in the dark red creating random patterns made of liquid streams, he tries to ignore it. And the blood, he notices maybe incongruously, is thick as he moves his finger, scoops a bit of it with his fingers and brings it closer to Damon’s lips.  
  
There’s something in the smirk appearing on Damon’s momentarily flushed face that is outright impressed.  
  
“Oh,  _that_  is kinky. I bet you didn’t even know that yourself, did you?”  
  
Alaric just doesn’t answer and if he comes with more than one shiver just after soft, swollen lips close around the tip of his fingers, he tries not to care too much.  
  
Mostly because the fucking bastard came at the same time, more or less, and because there’s a thrilling pleasure shaking him all over, that Alaric’s sure would taste like copper if he could feel it on his tongue. It’s not like he will ever know that, and he doesn’t even want to (most times). Still.  
  
When he’s back to his senses again, he doesn’t move even if he knows that Damon could free himself easily. He doesn’t, though, and that should probably mean bad news the same way Damon means bad news.  
  
Damon opens his mouth.  
  
“Your teeth aren’t going near my throat. Ever,” Alaric breathes down in his face, because while Damon can’t kill him, there’s a limit to everything.  
  
Damon rolls his eyes.  
  
“Touché,” he says in a voice that is way too warm, and then grabs the dirty knife from the other pillow and cleans the blade against the sheets.  
  
“Your arm isn’t your throat, though,” he suggests, and Alaric curses himself for it, but for some reason, for some goddamn reason which isn’t related to the fact that Damon controls people when he feels like it (because in this case, all bets are off), he just can’t, can’t say no.


End file.
